To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [235]
Jimmy Hall was the antithesis of Peterson, a man not much younger than Lufbery, a midwesterner who had sought adventure instead of academics. Hall had journeyed to England in mid-1914, intending to study creative writing, but when the war broke out, he decided that war could be the greatest inspiration of all. Hall joined the British army, allowed only because he claimed to be Canadian, and served in front-line combat in France as a machine-gunner. Later, after a visit to the States, Hall had learned of the formation of the American Escadrille. Encouraged by a publishing house to write articles based on his own experiences, he traveled to France, where, instead of merely researching, he decided to fly. It was Hall’s particular distinction that, on New Year’s Day, 1918, he was the victor in the Lafayette Escadrille’s final confirmed kill. If Peterson sought out the most dangerous combat, Hall could not avoid it. When Hall was transferred to the Ninety-fourth, he made his first introduction to the squadron by rolling his Nieuport over on its back right in front of the hangar. To the rapidly gathering crowd, the first assumption was that this newly arriving pilot was surely a recruit, utterly unskilled. As Hall climbed unceremoniously from his wrecked plane, it was Lufbery who realized the opposite. Even a veteran could make idiotic mistakes.
LUFBERY HAD SENT WORD OF THAW’S SURPRISE APPEARANCE TO both Hall and Peterson, and they had brought the appropriate greeting: a bottle of wine. Thaw sat heavily in a soft chair, behaved like the honored guest, and waited while his glass was filled.
The others raised their glasses, and Hall said, “A toast to the Club of Should Be Dead.”
The phrase had been Parsons’, and Thaw drank, said, “What happened to Ted, anyway? He should be here.”
Lufbery shrugged, and Peterson said, “I heard he stayed with the French. Didn’t want to put up with all the aggravation.”
Thaw laughed. “Parsons might use a different word than aggravation, College Boy. They not teach you how to swear at Harvard?”
Peterson seemed to blush, and Lufbery shook his head, said, “All right, Major, what the hell are you doing here? They toss you out of the One hundred third? You cause a mutiny?”
Thaw drank again, said, “Nope. They tossed the whole One hundred third out. We’re off tomorrow to Dunkirk. The Ass decided we’re needed up along the Channel, do something to help out the British. They’re getting pounded pretty bad, you know.”
Hall raised a glass, laughed at Thaw’s use of the word, the slang many of them were using to describe the American Air Service. “To the Ass.”
Lufbery ignored the toast, said, “You happy about that, Bill?”
Thaw shrugged. “Sure. What the hell, if I feel like it, I can take a jaunt over to England. Flying is flying. The Boche are everywhere. Doesn’t much matter if we shoot them up there or down here. What you think about Richthofen?”
There was a silent moment, Hall pouring another glass of wine. Lufbery stared at his half-empty glass, said, “About damned time.”
Peterson cleared his throat, seemed to struggle for words. “Never thought . . . I mean, he was the best there was, right?”
Lufbery thought a moment. “Nobody’s the best. No such thing. Makes no difference how good you are, all it takes is dumb luck, one half-blind moron who squeezes his trigger at the right moment, some antiaircraft clown who happens to guess right.”
Thaw sat forward, said, “Jeez, Luf. You going to a funeral?”
Lufbery drained his glass, set it down on the small table beside him, stared at the floor. “We all are. Just a matter of time. Richthofen proved it. Nobody’s immune.” He watched the others as they drank in silence, caught Thaw looking up at him.
Thaw said, “Not sure when